


Third Fragment: Crimes of Passion

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: Crime and Punishment: A Story in Three Fragments [3]
Category: Wiseguy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:34:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9329231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: And some things can't be explained in a court of law.





	

Depose. For some reason, Vince's brain kept taking the word apart, breaking it down to its Latin roots. It meant to testify, he knew; that's what he was doing today. It also meant to dethrone. _I've already done that. This is just the detail work._ Their case, the prosecutor said, was a slam-dunk; Sonny was going to do serious time, assuming he didn't get the death penalty. Vince tried not to think about it.

His testimony wasn't all they had, of course. There was the videotape of Sonny killing Patrice. Vinnie had stopped asking himself if he'd still be doing this if they didn't have that tape. It didn't matter what his answer was, so why keep asking?

And if he didn't testify against Sonny, he wouldn't be able to testify against Aldo and Mahoney for Scullisi's murder. He was trapped in more ways than one.

Had they offered Sonny a deal? Vince didn't think so. Why should they? They not only had him cold, they had Mahoney. And he'd handled the problem of Patrice for them. What could he possibly give them?

Like it mattered. Sonny wouldn't take it even if they offered.

Depose. He knew what they were going to ask him; the OCB lawyer had been over it with him to where he had both questions and answers memorized. By now they knew about Stan being his training officer, and they would use that to try to convince a jury his undercover work was vengeful rather than just. They would ask about crimes he had committed while working for Sonny—shooting Hawthorn (who wasn't dead). Shooting Tony San Martano (that was self-defense). Hitting guys with baseball bats, stealing their jewelry (yeah, well . . .). Paying for the hooker he'd got Sonny during his recuperation (no contest). Shooting helicopters and gun runners (he was acting as a federal agent, keeping illegal military arms from leaving the country). Were there other illegal acts? Maybe. Vince honestly couldn't remember.

He shifted in his seat, saw Frank give him a quick glance before giving his full attention back to the road. Behind him Martin Bowen, the prosecutor spoke up. "You understand, this is not a trial. This is merely a deposition."

"He realizes that," Frank answered before Vince could say anything. "He's not an idiot, he's a federal agent."

"The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive," Martin murmured before going on with his point. "You will be under oath, and required to answer all questions."

"Yeah, I got it," Vince agreed. He felt around for his pack of cigarettes, finally locating it and his lighter. As he lit up, both Frank and Martin powered down their windows. Vince ignored this subtle admonishment, but opened his own window as well.

"As I told you earlier, keep your answers brief. Don't volunteer information—"

"I remember," Vince interrupted. He put his hands behind his head, arched his back, but he couldn't get his back to crack.

"If they ask a question that seems improper, I can object to it—"

"Yes, Martin, just like on _Perry Mason._ He knows." Why Frank was helping him, Vince didn't know. He didn't appreciate it—he wanted them both to shut up—but he did find Frank amusing.

"Unlike a trial—or Perry Mason—my objection won't mean anything immediately. There won't be a judge present, so there will be no one to rule on the objection."

"Then why bother?" Frank asked, sounding indignant.

Martin sighed. "Later, the questions and objections will be reviewed by a judge, who will determine which objections to sustain and which to overrule. The ones sustained will be removed, with the answers, from the official record of the deposition. The overruled ones will not, of course."

"Of course," Vince agreed, and heard Frank laugh.

"The thing is, it doesn't look good to have too many objections. It makes it look like the witness has something to hide. So you're going to be answering questions you wouldn't be at trial. Don't worry about it. The only exception to this are questions which call for privileged information, or if there is no possible relevance. Can I assume you have the good sense not to answer either of those, should they arise?"

"Yeah, sure. What kind of privileged information could I have?" He was asking Frank, and it was Frank who answered.

"You don't. You're not a doctor, lawyer, priest. The closest would be if they asked you about other agents—"

"Which would fall under the heading of irrelevant," Martin broke in. "Don't answer. Anything else, don't worry about, just answer them."

"You think you got that?" Frank asked dryly. "If they ask you a question, answer it. It's a little complicated, Martin; you think you could break it down for him, make it simpler?"

"I'm only doing my job—"

"You've been doing your job for a week now, how many times've you told him this same stuff? He's not an idiot, he got it the second or third time, right, Vince?"

"Just answer the questions. Yeah, Frank, I got it. Wrote it on the palm of my hand. I even picked up some of it the first time."

"See? Top of his class. Now just ride along quietly and stop nagging." Frank glanced over at Vince. "Put out the cigarette."

 _Playing alpha wolf, huh?_ Vince flipped the cigarette out the window, and they all put their windows up.

"Hope they don't ask you about littering," Frank muttered.

"If they do, Frank, I'll answer. But I won't volunteer," Vince said, giving Frank his best altar boy look, and Frank gave a short, unwilling laugh.

Vince walked down the hall of the federal courthouse, flanked by Frank and Martin and feeling ridiculous. He didn't want either of them there, but Martin had to be, and Frank was unshakable. They were there early, and Vince scanned the halls nervously, watching for Sonny's arrival.

He started into the room, but Frank grabbed his arm, stopping him to straighten his tie. "You're gonna do fine," he said quietly.

 

The first thing Vince noticed as he entered the small room was that Sonny was sitting with his back to the door, an act both out of character and inconvenient—everyone entering the room had to push past him.

 _Early wasn't early enough,_ Vince thought. _I should have known._ As he moved past, Sonny looked up at him. _Sonny looks good._ It was a stupid thought, but it was true. Sonny looked well-rested, neatly pressed. The suit was a new one; at least, it was not one Vince recognized. And he looked . . . anticipatory. Vince figured that Sonny was set up better than he had been, but he hadn't expected a month in prison to leave Sonny looking so invigorated. _Maybe Daryl wasn't shining me on when he said I looked good. Maybe prison life has that effect._ Their eyes met, and for a second there was something in the air between them; then a coldness came to Sonny's eyes and Vince felt he might as well have been looking into the eyes of a stranger. No, not a stranger; a dead friend.

Sonny was sitting at the foot of the small table; the stenographer was at its head, and a woman who had to be Sonny's lawyer sat at his left hand. The empty spot next to her had no chair. Martin had politely moved down to the seat next to the stenographer, leaving the only vacant seat the one at Sonny's right hand. Vince didn't want to take it, but he was damned if he'd give Sonny the satisfaction by making a fuss about it. He sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on the woman sitting across from him. 

Sonny's lawyer wasn't anyone Vince had ever dealt with, and she seemed too young and somehow too naive to be the kind of top-flight litigator Sonny would have. With all the lawyers Sonny had on hand, why would he hire a girl who looked like she could have been a classmate of Tracy's? Besides, he knew Sonny's philosophy regarding women and his business.

Vince could feel Sonny watching him, and he turned his head to find Sonny smiling at him. He wanted to look away. Instead he held Sonny's gaze as they walked through the preliminaries, identifying all parties in the room—Vince, Martin, Sonny's lawyer, Alexis Brantley, and the stenographer. Once they were complete, Ms Brantley started her questioning.

"Now that we all know who we are, Agent Terranova, would you please state for the record your home address?" Vince did, thinking that Ms Brantley reminded him of a substitute teacher, the sweet, pretty, young ones kids in his school had eaten alive. Sonny wouldn't've let her handle a parking ticket—what the hell was she doing defending him in a capital case?

"Thank you. Now, would you please give us a short history of your employment with the Organized Crime Bureau?"

"Objection," Martin cut in. "That question's pretty vague. What exactly are you looking for?"

"I'm trying to get a handle on the range of Agent Terranova's law enforcement experience, how long he's worked for the Organized Crime Bureau, what kinds of cases he's been involved in."

"Go ahead and answer," Martin said, and Vince did, giving the dates of his admission to the FBI training academy, his graduation, the time he spent doing surveillance work. All the time he talked, Sonny watched him, leaning forward, his elbows on the table.

When he had finished, Ms Brantley just looked at him for a moment, as if waiting for him to continue. "That's quite a lot of training," she said at last. "But I was asking about your previous cases."

"There were no previous cases," Vince told her. "This was my first assignment."

"I see. Agent Terranova, how did you happen to be assigned to investigate Mr. Steelgrave?"

"I was assigned to investigate Mr. Steelgrave following my release from prison."

"That time you spent in prison—the charges were made up, weren't they? As part of a cover."

"Yeah. The whole deal was set-up."

"So you committed no actual crimes, is that right?"

That seemed like an odd question. "Yes, that's right."

Ms Brantley looked at her notes, then looked up at Vince, frowning. " **How** did you come to be assigned to investigate my client?"

"Objection," Martin said. "Asked and answered."

"Asked," Ms Brantley said, "but I don't believe he did answer. Could you read that back, please?" she asked the stenographer.

"Question: 'Agent Terranova, how did you happen to be assigned to investigate Mr. Steelgrave?'

"Answer: 'I was assigned to investigate Mr. Steelgrave following my release from prison.'"

Ms Brantley smiled at Vince. "That doesn't answer my question. I know you were assigned to investigate my client, and when; I'm asking how you came to be assigned to the investigation."

No way to avoid it. "I requested the assignment." 

"Why?"

"Because Dave Steelgrave murdered my training officer, Stan Dermott." The moment the words were out of his mouth, Vince wished them back.

Ms Brantley was nodding. "So your interest in Mr. Steelgrave and his family was personal rather than professional?"

"My interest was stopping the Steelgraves' criminal activities and seeing them punished," Vince said, hating the stiffness of his words, and the way Sonny grinned at him.

"Of course," Ms Brantley agreed. She flipped to the next page in her notebook, glanced at Sonny, who nodded. "Agent Terranova, where did you get your suit? The one you're wearing right now."

There was a perplexed silence before Martin objected. "How is this relevant?"

"I'll rephrase. Agent Terranova, who bought your suit?"

"Sonn—Mr. Steelgrave."

"Your tie?"

"Mr. Steelgrave."

"Your shirt?"

"Mr. Steelgrave." Every repetition of Sonny's name made Vince's head throb a little more, wound his nerves a little tighter.

"Your socks?"

"Objection," Martin finally cut in. Vince turned to look at him, wondering why it had taken him so long to interrupt—and found his answer. Martin was baffled. "A full recitation of Agent Terranova's apparel isn't necessary; the prosecution agrees to stipulate that the clothing was paid for by the defendant."

Ms Brantley seemed to be trying not to giggle. "The only thing left to ask about is Agent Terranova's underwear. **Was** that purchased by Mr. Steelgrave as well?"

Vince's face was burning. Sonny had stopped grinning at him; his eyes were filled with dark knowledge. "Yes," Vince whispered, then repeated it, louder.

"Thank you. Now, Mr. Bowen has graciously agreed to stipulate that your clothes—the clothes you're wearing right now—were paid for by Mr. Steelgrave, but that wasn't what I asked. I asked who bought them. Who picked out the material for the suit?"

"Mr. Steelgrave."

"Who picked out the tie?"

Vince was starting to get very uncomfortable. This wasn't about the money. "Mr. Steelgrave."

"Who picked out the underwear?"

"Objection!" Martin finally cut in. "Agent Terranova's underwear is his own business!"

Ms Brantley barely spared him a glance. "If my client purchased it, it's the court's business as well. Agent Terranova?"

"Yeah," Vince admitted. "Sonny picked it out, too. He picked out everything." He could feel his face going bright red, heard Sonny snickering.

"Now, the home address you gave the court is in Brooklyn. Was that where you were living during the investigation?"

"No." Vince was glad of the subject change, but he was afraid this wasn't going to be any improvement.

"No? Then where were you living?"

"At the hotel."

"The hotel?"

"The Royal Diamond," Vince clarified.

"Which Mr. Steelgrave owns?"

"Yeah."

"You were registered as a guest the whole time? That must have been expensive."

"No."

"No, you weren't registered, or no, it wasn't expensive?"

"No, I wasn't registered. I stayed in an apartment in the building."

"An apartment? What kind of apartment? Some kind of servants' quarters?" The question was asked with exaggerated innocence, and Vince sighed, knowing he couldn't avoid this.

"It was one of the executive suites." _She's going to ask you if you paid rent._ Wanting to head off the question, he added, "I was—uh—a guest of Mr. Steelgrave." It felt strange saying that—both too familiar and too formal. None of this seemed to have anything to do with him and Sonny; this was about two other people, a Mr. Steelgrave and an Agent Terranova.

"Besides the clothes and the apartment, was there anything else you received from Mr. Steelgrave?"

"Yeah. There was a Porsche."

"Mr. Steelgrave gave you a Porsche?"

"I wouldn't call it gave. I had the use of a Porsche, like I had the use of the apartment." Vince looked over at Sonny. "You never transferred the title over to me, did you?" Sonny was just smiling benignly. "Hey, you should'a told me you wanted to take inventory. Don't forget this—" he pulled off his watch and threw it on the table. "A Rolex, right? And what about this?" He took out the gold lighter Sonny'd given him, dropped it on the table as well. "And don't forget these—" He fumbled out his cufflinks, tossed them down as well.

Martin had his hand on Vince's arm, was whispering at him, trying to get him to calm down, but Vince didn't feel like calming down.

"You want the tie back?" He jerked the tie loose, tossed it onto the table. "Take the fucking tie back— When did I ever ask you for silk ties or tailor-made suits? That was for **your** ego, it wasn't about me.

"Oh, and let's not forget my mother's hospital room, the flowers you sent to Danny's funeral, the grand you gave my brother for his church—"

Sonny leaned over, whispered in his lawyer's ear.

"Mr. Bowen," Ms Brantley interrupted smoothly, "my client is requesting that we break for lunch. If it's acceptable to you and Agent Terranova, we can reconvene here at two o'clock."

Vince watched Martin gratefully accept this offer. As soon as they were alone, Vince slumped onto the table, his head cradled in his arms.

He didn't look up when Frank came into the room, closing the door behind him.

"What's going on? Where are Steelgrave and his lawyer going? You can't possibly be finished already."

"We might be completely finished, if your agent can't pull himself together." Martin's disgust with him didn't even begin to touch Vince's disgust with himself.

"What is going on?" Frank's tone brooked no nonsense.

"Talk to your agent about it. I'm going to get some lunch." Martin slammed the door behind him.

"'Talk to your agent,'" Frank muttered. "Vince?"

He looked up. Frank was sitting in the chair Sonny had vacated.

"I blew it, Frank."

"What happened?"

But before he could answer, Daryl came slamming into the room. "Frank, what is going on here? Martin says there're problems with Terranova's testimony."

"I don't know, sir. I only just found out there was a problem."

They were looking at him, waiting for—what? A confession. Screw that. He went on the offensive instead. "You guys spent all that time prepping me for questions about any illegal acts I might have taken part in and she didn't ask one. We talked about my clothes."

"What about your clothes?" Daryl asked.

"That Sonny bought 'em. Picked out everything personally." Vince didn't know what either man was going to make of that piece of information, but he could feel himself blushing again. "None of this makes any sense."

"Sure it does," Frank said. He'd picked up Vince's tie and was smoothing out the wrinkles. "They're trying to discredit you. How doesn't matter, as long as they do it. You wearing the clothes Steelgrave bought you is suspect." He folded the tie and put it down.

"That's ridiculous," Daryl snapped. "There's no difference between those clothes and a helicopter we confiscate."

"Except you don't have to have a landing pad for a suit," Frank muttered. Daryl didn't reply—Vince wondered if he'd heard.

"They're part of your cover," Daryl told him. "I expect you to make this work." He closed the door sharply on his way out.

"It's too late now anyway. Even if I gave it all back, it's all on the record."

"Did anything else happen?" Frank's voice was very careful, and he was keeping his expression deliberately neutral. Vinnie wondered how much he knew.

"I don't know, Frank. Something's going on. Do you know anything about Sonny's lawyer?"

"Like what?" Frank asked slowly, leaving Vince's question sounding peculiar.

"I don't know! There's just something wrong with her being here. She's too young, too inexperienced, and Sonny's very old school about women and business. He wouldn't hire her to defend him without a very specific reason."

"So what does that mean?"

"I don't know . . . ."

They just sat there for a minute, then Frank picked up his tie, tossed it over to him. "Why don't you put that back on?" He rolled the cufflinks over to him. "And those. Pull yourself together and I'll buy you some lunch." 

"All right, but I want to get back in plenty of time." He didn't know what the game was, but he wasn't planning on losing it.

 

At Vince's insistence, they were back at the courthouse at one, standing outside where Vince could smoke.

"Wanna tell me what's up?"

"I don't know exactly. This morning Sonny maneuvered me into sitting at his right hand, trying to unsettle me. This afternoon I want things to be different."

"So we're here an hour early so you can choose the seating arrangement?"

"That's what I was going to do, yeah. I was thinking I had to get control of the room so Sonny would see he wasn't controlling me—but that's exactly what he'd be doing."

"So why are we here again?"

Vinnie stubbed out his cigarette, dropped it into the ashtray. "So Sonny can see me **not** playing his game."

"Not bad, not bad at all." It wasn't exactly a testimonial, but for Frank it downright effusive. "You want me to see if I can finagle a way to be in there with you?"

"What, because I'm **your** agent and I might embarrass you?"

Frank shook his head. "Moral support. I know this isn't easy for you."

"No, thanks, Frank. I can handle it."

Vinnie took his same seat at the table. Sonny could sit wherever the hell he wanted.

And he did, taking his same seat, but this time waiting until everyone else had been seated.

"Agent Terranova," Ms Brantley began, but stopped when the door opened and Daryl came in. Vinnie could see Frank lurking unwillingly in the hall.

Daryl wanted to sit in, wanted Frank to sit in, if no one had any objections. No one did, no one but Vinnie, and what was he going to say?

They scrambled around for another couple of chairs, and then Vinnie was sitting next to Sonny, with Daryl across from him. Frank had been relegated to a corner of the room, behind Martin, away from the table. He didn't look any happier about this than Vinnie felt.

When they were all settled, Ms Brantley started over. "Agent Terranova, how was David Steelgrave killed?"

"There was a dispute between the Steelgraves and some gun-runners. A meeting was set up at the Blue Angel motel. Dave Steelgrave was shot."

"Was anyone else shot?"

"Sonny—Mr.—" He broke off mid-correction— _fuck it!_ "Tony Greco. Cal Roebling."

"You weren't injured, were you, Agent Terranova?"

"A few bruises. I was in the next room, with two other guys shooting at me."

"Please, Agent Terranova, would you describe the events that followed the shooting?"

That seemed safe enough. "I saw Sykes and his guys drive off. Cal was dead on the steps. I entered the room and found Tony injured, leaning against the wall. Dave was on the floor, dead. I thought Sonny was dead, too, at first."

"You were sure David Steelgrave was dead?"

"Yes, I was. It was obvious from his injuries, but I checked his pulse. I didn't find one." For a long moment, no one said anything, the unasked question hanging in the air. "If he'd been alive, I would have done everything I could have to save him." Again, the silence. "Jesus, Sonny, I saved **your** life! I wouldn't've let your brother die."

It must have been what Sonny was waiting to hear. Ms Brantley asked her next question. "Did you attend David Steelgrave's funeral?"

"Yes." _Don't elaborate._

"In what capacity?"

"It was part of my role as Sonny's driver."

"During your time in Mr. Steelgrave's employ—" She stopped, gave him a smile. "I'm sorry. Of course, you were never in Mr. Steelgrave's employ. During your time investigating Mr. Steelgrave, did you ever socialize with him?"

"Yes."

"How often?"

"I'm not sure," Vinnie hedged, and knew immediately it had been a mistake.

"More than once a month?"

"Yes."

"More than once a week?"

Vinnie sighed. "Yes."

"How many times a week? Your best guess will do," she added, forestalling any more excuses.

"Nearly every day," Vinnie admitted.

"Nearly every day. You had lunch together—how often?"

"Nearly every day."

"Dinner?"

"A little less often."

"That sounds like quite a bit of socializing. Is it true Mr. Steelgrave taught you how to dance?"

Sonny snickered. Vinnie stared at the table, feeling himself blushing, feeling both Frank and Daryl staring at him.

"Agent Terranova?" Ms Brantley prodded.

"Yeah. Tried to, anyway."

"How many of those dinners did you and Mr. Steelgrave have in your apartment?"

Vinnie could feel his mind go blank. "I don't know." And before she could start in on him again, added, "A lot. His, or mine."

"Just the two of you?"

Vince's heart sank. _Oh, my God. You bastard._ Sonny had found a way to discredit him and make him bare his soul in public. He looked at Sonny, a question in his eyes: _"You want me to tell 'em everything?"_

And the response was a look he'd seen before— _go ahead, pull the trigger, if you got the balls._ Vince had never been sure it had been a bluff Sonny'd used on Patrice; he **was** sure it wasn't a bluff now. Sit here in front of his boss and say—for the record—the truth about his relationship with Sonny—ruin the case, ruin his life—

"Agent Terranova?"

"I—what was the question?"

"Of those dinners in either your apartment or Mr. Steelgrave's, how many were just the two of you?"

Frank wasn't in his line of sight, and then he was, dragging his chair closer, whispering to Martin Bowen. Across the table, Daryl was looking at him as though he'd never seen him before.

"Agent Terranova?" Ms Brantley nudged him softly.

"Most of the time." He let the words out slowly, reluctantly; he knew what the next question was going to be.

"And how many nights did Mr. Steelgrave spend in your apartment?"

"Objection!" Martin finally seemed to be getting back in the game. Not that it mattered; Vinnie still had to answer.

"I don't know. I never counted."

"Ms Brantley, what is the relevance of this line of questioning?" Bowen demanded.

"It goes to Agent Terranova's impartiality, to his methods of investigation," she answered smoothly. "And when Mr. Steelgrave spent the night, where did he sleep?"

Even expecting it didn't alleviate the shock of hearing it; Vince could feel the blood draining from his face, could feel his hands going cold. Sonny, don't!

"Objection!"

"Agent Terranova?" 

Vince couldn't look at Daryl. Frank wasn't in his chair anymore, he was crouched next to Vince, between him and Martin, trying to—what? No one else was paying any attention to him. And why should they? He wasn't the show, Vince was.

"Agent—"

 _Fuck it. It doesn't matter if I answer, how I answer—it's the questions that'll bury me. I might as well barge right through._ "If Mr.—if **Sonny** spent the night, he slept in my bed—if he slept at all, which he didn't do often, since most of the time he wasn't there to sleep." He turned to look at Sonny, finally, found a disturbing excitement closing in on violent satisfaction. "You want me to tell 'em everything? Where should I start?"

"How about the night with the linguini?" Ms Brantley suggested, and Vinnie found himself standing with no idea how he'd gotten to his feet.

He dropped back into his chair. "You **told** her about that?" His voice betrayed him too, showing how much this hurt. "Why start with the linguini? Why not start at the beginning, the night you climbed into my bed an' about begged me to fuck you, you want me to tell 'em that? The number of nights you had your cock in my mouth? I didn't count— What about when you told me you loved me—"

Sonny was shaking his head. "Never, kid. **Nev-er.** " He drew out the word with enormous satisfaction. "You know that's just what you say to get what you're after."

Martin was objecting, Daryl was—who knew what Daryl was doing, squawking about something.

"Agent Terranova." Ms Brantley cut in gently. "I only have one more question."

Vince closed his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Was Mr. Steelgrave your friend?"

And for a second—not even that—the world stopped, everything went dark and silent in Vince's head. He took a deep breath.

"Yeah. Yeah, he was."

And that was the end of it. Ms Brantley thanked everyone, and she and Sonny left. Martin said something to Daryl about the possibility of continuing with the prosecution, and while he didn't specifically mention pigs flying, or hell freezing over, Vinnie got the point. Eventually they left too. By that time Vinnie had his head down on the table, and was thinking how, if he had a sword, he would gladly fall on it. The only question was, who would he be doing it for? Who had he betrayed, who had he dishonored? The answer was, everyone.

"Vince." Frank's voice, the voice of reason.

"Go 'way."

"Vince, you have to—"

"Go away," Vinnie enunciated more clearly. "Please, Frank, just go away." He couldn't look at him, he couldn't look at anyone. "Please."

And eventually Frank did go away. When he was sure there was no one outside waiting to ambush him, Vince slunk from the building.

It took him a while to realize Frank was following him, but when he did, Vince stopped and let him catch up. "Come to bring me my thirty pieces of silver?"

"Don't be so melodramatic," Frank grumbled. "After what he did to you—"

"Yeah," Vinnie interrupted. He didn't want to do a postmortem on his relationship with Sonny. "It all makes sense now, Frank." It was just the two of them, walking alone on a deserted stretch of beach. The sun was almost completely down and it was getting cold, but Vinnie couldn't think of anyplace else to go. He wasn't sure how Frank had found him, but he was grateful he'd taken the trouble.

"What makes sense?" Frank asked.

"The homecoming queen. Sonny didn't hire her to represent him, he hired her to assassinate me, and that's just what she did. I wonder how long it took him to find a lawyer who'd go along with him."

"You're not dead, Vince."

"I might as well be. I can't testify against any of them now, I'm a disgrace to the OCB, to my family, to—what are you doing here?"

"Same thing I've been doing for the last week: watching you feel sorry for yourself."

"I've got a right to!" _The last week? How long had Frank been following him?_

"Today you do," Frank allowed. "But not tomorrow. This is your last day of self-pity."

"Why, what's tomorrow?"

"According to one of those annoying motivational posters I have to pass every morning on the way to my office, it's the first day of the rest of your life."

"Well, with all due respect to your fortune cookie philosophy—"

"I understand how you feel, Vince. I'm going to do what I can to get this buried."

"Good luck with that. I saw the way Daryl was looking at me—"

"I can work on Daryl. You're a valuable commodity; he won't want to lose you."

"And Sonny?"

Frank didn't say anything.

"Are you doing to offer him a deal?"

"It won't be necessary. Vince . . . Steelgrave's dead."

The waves were crashing hard, making an awful racket. Vinnie wasn't sure he'd heard Frank right. "What?"

"He was knifed in his cell shortly after he was brought back from the deposition."

Vinnie faltered, stopped to stare at Frank. "Who? Why?"

"There are no suspects. Nobody at the prison knows anything, thinks anything. They're saying it must have been a personal altercation between Steelgrave and another prisoner, and they're saying it so insistently, I suspect a guard, probably on Mahoney's payroll." Frank paused, added diffidently, "He was dead when they found him."

"Mahoney . . . ?" This didn't scan. Why would **Mahoney** want Sonny dead? And then it clicked. "Sonny brought me in. His hand-picked protégée; I never thought of what that would mean. Shit."

"Are you all right?" Frank was close, not quite touching him.

"Yeah, sure." He wasn't, really, but what could he say? Sonny was dead, no matter what he said. Sonny was dead? _"You'd've stuck that knife right in my back, right through my heart and watched the life race out of my eyes!"_ No, but someone had. Someone had, and Vinnie had sharpened that knife, handed it to him, told him where to strike. "I'm sorry, Frank."

"Sorry for what? Where's your jacket? Where are your shoes?"

"In the car."

"Let's go." They started walking. "What're you sorry for?"

"Screwing up." That seemed to cover a multitude of sins, in any number of definitions. _Was Mr. Steelgrave your friend?_

"It happens. Looks to me like you hurt yourself more than anything."

 _Was Mr. Steelgrave your friend?_ "I don't know what to do now."

"That one's easy. Go home, get some sleep. I'll see what I can do about getting this mess cleaned up."

"Why're you being so nice to me?" Vinnie asked.

"Is that a complaint?" Frank asked, actually sounding amused.

"No. I just didn't think—" He couldn't say the words.

"Yeah, that's something you need to start doing. Get in the car, Vince."

He did, not closing the door. _Was Mr. Steelgrave your friend?_ "He **was** my friend, Frank."

"I know he was, Vince. Are you OK to drive?"

"Yeah, Frank, I'm OK." He was breathing; that put him one up on Sonny, anyway.

"Go home, get some sleep. Remember to make your call-ins. I'll be in touch in a few days." There was comfort in those words, comfort in the direct way Frank's eyes met his.

Frank closed the door, stood there while he started the car, was watching as he drove away.

**Author's Note:**

> Then the idea for the third story came to me, only it was a trial rather than a deposition, and it kind of stalled. It stayed stalled for—oh, four years maybe, even though I had, through a conversation with a friend with a background in the law, discovered that it needed to be a deposition rather than a trial. I'm not sure what prompted me to open it up again in '04, but once I did, it just came down like rain. I finished it right before MediaWest, & took it along to read aloud. And let me tell you, that, reading it aloud to a group of my friends, was one of the most satisfying experiences of my life as a writer.


End file.
